The Making Of
by When Rabbits Attack
Summary: "...and I think that one day, if we're very, very lucky, he might even be a good one."


**Credits**: My betas, who helped make this possible.

**Spoilers: **Majorfor 1x01 "A Study In Pink" So much so, that if you haven't watched it (a) why are you looking at this and (b) if you plan to do so, for the love of anything sacred, do not read this first.

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><p><strong>The Making Of<br>**

Technically, it was an unsolvable case. Realistically, nobody cared. Truthfully...

Lestrade sat back in his chair, listening to the sounds of the office at night. Not his own team, god, no, he'd sent them home hours ago for long-needed sleep or a chance to unwind. It had been a long day and most of them weren't satisfied with the ending. It was an ending, though, or as much of one as any of them were going to get. They were finders of truth. Keeper of secrets was at least one step above their pay-grade.

It was as he'd said earlier. He wasn't stupid. People might like to think so but if he seemed all-too-often simple in his thinking it only meant they were all the more caught off-guard when they realised he wasn't. The problem with being clever all the time was that you had to _be_ clever all the time. Which wouldn't be so bad, except most of the world really wasn't as clever as it thought it was. Not only was Lestrade no Sherlock Holmes, he had no desire to be like him. Yes, it was something, watching him unravel the oddball or overly tangled problems, but the truth was, when it came to solving ordinary crimes, the man was rubbish. Hand him a garden-variety murder or robbery and he'd never get you anything you could take to court. _If you hear hoofbeats, don't look for zebras,_ the saying ran, but the only animals Sherlock was capable of tracking tended more along the lines of platypus.

Which made sense, because in many ways, he was one: a chimera with the body of a man, the brilliance of a roomful of Nobel laureates and the emotional maturity of a particularly recalcitrant four-year-old. Really, once you understood that, you understood most of what you needed to. No one could match Sherlock Holmes as a detective. No, what you needed were the skills of a parent, especially the willingness and patience to explain basic concepts such as courtesy and cooperation, over and over again. Not to mention the ability to look at what seemed to be an impossible conclusion and hold off on laughing until you had the entire explanation. Ridicule only brought up counterwill and resentment.

Unconsciously, Lestrade tapped his pen against the arm of his chair. People like Donovan and Anderson never seemed to catch on, but John Watson had picked it up within a matter of minutes, it seemed. Flatmates was one thing – people could share a flat for years and never interact beyond 'hello', 'goodbye' and 'the milk is off'. Hell, they could be _married_ for years and not go beyond that. But here... already Sherlock had begun to use the good doctor as a compass, peer pressure – and who would have thought anyone could successfully apply that to Sherlock Holmes – accomplishing what the disapproval of authority could not.

No, Lestrade mused, he wasn't stupid. He'd seen what Sherlock had seen, before the superior tones faded, dying off into babbled protestations of non-existent shock. Sherlock, the man whose entire _raison d'être_ was to prove himself superior to everyone else and damn the consequences, sacrificing his immediate ego to save someone else. Two days ago, he would have served up the shooter and walked off without a backward glance. But tonight the little boy had grown up some. Maybe not a lot, but some. How Watson had accomplished it was something Lestrade would give almost anything to find out. Including a small bit of his policeman's soul. He should have felt shame, or guilt, he supposed, letting a murderer – albeit a murderer of a murderer – walk free, but he couldn't help the sense of parental pride. It had been like watching a nursery-schooler make his first, real friend.

Some might wonder who would _want_ to be a friend of someone like Sherlock; wonder if John Watson might even be more dangerous. Lestrade didn't believe that. Sherlock wasn't the psychopath the others tagged him as, nor did Lestrade completely buy the man's own diagnosis of high-functioning sociopath. He'd dealt with too many of both over his career. No, the truth was much simpler than that: Sherlock had been so different, so special, that no one had taught him how to behave. A true sociopath wouldn't care what direction Anderson faced. Any audience was a good audience as far as they were concerned.

So, tomorrow he'd have Sherlock in and deliberately avoid asking for details about the shooting. If he was right, Sherlock would deliberately avoid answering what wasn't asked. Let Anderson tag the meagre evidence, let Donovan mutter about a word overheard in chaos. Let John Watson live with his sins, if he truly had any. After all, what did they have to blame him with, but the babbled words of a man who'd just cheated death and seen someone killed? Words of a man in shock – someone undoubtedly had photos of him being treated that could prove it. Besides, where would an upstanding, law-abiding citizen obtain himself an unregistered handgun, anyway? Surely the army took better care than that when handling a discharge.

No, all and all things were better left alone. One win, one draw, one miracle. Lestrade smiled. From here, who knew? He might just be lucky, after all.


End file.
